🌚my secret bubble🌚

sometimes,

“And even after all this time, you’ve got to find it in yourself to love this life. Even after bad haircuts and flu season and nights spent staring at the blurry turn of the ceiling fan, half-drunk and wondering what the point is. Even after your third slice of cold pizza and bug bites and pink eye. Hangnails, selfish sex, that little smudge on the mirror that never goes away. Even alone. Even in love. Even worse. The world, your mother used to tell you, is not your oyster. What she meant was, the world, too, is hard to love. Just like you. And even still. Even now, with all your carefully built walls caving in. Icy sidewalks lined with hungry people. Hopeless eyes. Empty hands open wide. Here’s the truth: she doesn’t love you back. Or maybe it’s him. Shaggy-haired smart ass. He’s too far away to touch you the way you want. Even then. Even when the bananas rot away. Brown and lined with fruit flies. It’s been a year since your grandmother died, and the kitchen still smells like the butterscotch candy she used to make each Christmas. She never got around to teaching you how to make it for yourself. Even so. Look up at the stars every once in a while. Watch how they flicker like the headlights on the highway behind your childhood home. Promise you’ll try to see this life with brand new eyes. A lover whose name you’re only now learning. Even after all this time. Forgive her sharp edges. She, too, is doing all she can. She, too, deserves a chance at reinvention.”